There was a full body, cooked. Covered with brown gravy and a little extra stew meat. In a big trencher, a flat trough, rectangular shallow pan just long enough for a body, lying in brown meat gravy. Body fully done, as brown as the gravy, just a bit eaten off or into already. Nothing distinguishing—no face, but still this was a real body, lying in gravy stewed with the stew meat. An antique body, a zombie figure. Distinctive, but all changed. Unprepared, the little hungry wanderer comes to here, to face this meat, through the ghost side of the path. Should the hungry wanderer nibble it? She weighed the options. A considered, if reluctant, finding (because she was quite hungry)—eating this was too much. Too much like cannibalism. But not implausible. A choice. Thus one might eat or decide to eat, the avatar of one’s own pure cooked meat. 7. The words insisted on wily mourning, wily pleasure, verb! verb! verb! and combination! Combin—looming. Intoxication. Storage in rectangles, shelved or splay and reach, dramatizing space behind, in back, beyond. I dreamed I bought a dress (a dress? a me?) marked down forty-odd dollars off— $114 to 73. What’s meant by this? my poem? my life? Capricious and sibylline is spent such striking number-dredging night. 8. There you are, you bees, homeless clinging whirring to the face of the destroyed –the tree was rotten, but and yet perhaps we can move the chunk of trunk for you retain the hole wherein is hive which now you know you hardly want so changed it is from something that we do not understand since pesticides assist the murderers, and those up to their wrists in simple political blood, charged blood, the blood cast forth were forced to drink from the bees’ bowl, to share with bees a fate, the rim is busy, twitching, they talking all about it. It looked as if they were a simple buzzing music box and we could wind that spring
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